


hell is actually a mediocre place

by nezstorm



Series: building with our worn out tools [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Family Feels, Feral Behavior, Feral Peter, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Orphan Stiles, Pre-Slash, kid stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 18:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14361126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/pseuds/nezstorm
Summary: Stiles never meant to get lost.





	hell is actually a mediocre place

Stiles never meant to get lost.

 

No, that’s not right.

 

He didn’t want to be around anymore. 

 

It hurt too much to be unable to go home, to be forced to stay with Scott and Melissa and uncle Raf.  _ Temporarily _ . Until the aunt he never really met came to pick him up and take him in. 

 

It hurt to wake up in Scotty’s room, to walk down the stairs for breakfast that was almost always cereal. Melissa didn’t have time to make anything more, uncle Raf wasn’t really inclined and Scott was seven just like him: even if they wanted to make something else they weren’t allowed.

 

It had been weeks since Stiles ate pancakes for breakfast, the funny kind, made into bears and cars. A sheriff star that one time for daddy’s birthday. The McCalls sometimes had waffles on sundays, with powdered sugar or honey, but they were never burnt, like his mom’s were.

 

He wanted his mom and dad back. He wanted to bury his face in brown curls before braiding them like mom taught him, he wanted to sit at the table with fake case files and let daddy help him solve who drank the last of the milk. 

 

But he had been at the cemetery at his parents’ funeral and he knew he wouldn’t  have any of the things he wanted ever again.

 

Melissa and Scott tried to help, he knew, but as much as he loved them they weren’t who he needed most. And even if they could someday be enough, Stiles couldn’t stay with them because he had an aunt on her way to take even that away.  

 

He begged and cried and pleaded, he hid where he could, or refused to speak, but all that did was make Melissa and Scotty sad, and that was even worse than the pitying looks he got.

 

So Stiles ran. 

 

He didn’t take much with him: a plush fox mom had made him, his dad’s old sweatshirt, a change of clothes, a bottle of water and some granola bars he found in the cupboard. He thought he wouldn’t go far, maybe he’d hide in the old, abandoned house in the preserve. He’d stay there until his aunt would go away and then he’d come back.

 

He sneaked out late at night. He didn’t even have to be stealthy. Melissa had a late night shift, his best friend slept like a log and uncle Raf was the same: very difficult to wake up, especially after a few too many shots of whiskey.

 

He climbed over the fence in the backyard and followed the path he and Scott sometimes used when they played in the woods. 

 

And he might have walked that way a hundred times, but he’d never done it at night.

 

It wasn’t exactly scary, not for the first mile or two, but that might have all been his determination to get away. But the thicker the woods got, the louder the rustling leaves were, the more nervous he became. 

 

He used the Batman torch Scott got him for his sixth birthday to light the way, but it didn’t change the fact that the preserve was much louder and sinister in the dark. 

 

The first time he heard the bush to his right rustle he didn’t even bother directing the torch at it. It was nothing. Maybe a bunny, or a fox. But it kept happening and the one time he tried to check, he found a pair of glowing eyes looking at him. 

 

He ran.

 

He ran as fast as he could as long as it was away of whatever might have been there. Low branches and bushes slapped at his skin and tangled in his hair, but he forced himself onwards. His legs ached and he kept stumbling, but he didn’t dare stop. 

 

And then he tripped and lost his hold on the torch as he fell. Instinctively, he tried to shield his face with his arms. It earned him a few scratches, but it was his knee that hurt the most. 

 

He reached to check on it, found a tear in his pants and whimpered at the touch. His fingers were wet with what must have been blood.

 

He wanted to make sure, but when he looked around for his torch he couldn’t see the light.

 

That’s okay, he thought, it just fell and turned off. It just fell.

 

Bracing most of his weight on his uninjured knee he touched around the place he fell, brushing through the leaves and over the roots until he felt out the cylindric handle of his torch. But his little sound of triumph turned fast into a whimper as the bat signal wouldn’t light up.

 

It must have hit something as it landed on the ground, much like Stiles.

 

His breath hitched in his chest, his eyes prickling with tears. Hastily, he wiped over his face with his sleeve and tried to make out his surroundings. 

 

It wasn’t anywhere near the full moon so the light was sparse, still he noticed a rather big tree to his left with a generous tangle of roots he could hide in and wait till morning. 

 

He crawled over there carefully and tugged his backpack off curling around it in the leaves.

 

He meant to stay alert till dawn, but exhaustion caught up to him soon enough. 

 

\---

 

Stiles woke up the next morning to a booming roar.

 

He was backed up against the tree trunk before he was even fully conscious of what was happening around him. And even when he blinked away the remnants of sleep he couldn’t quite believe in what he was seeing.

 

Right in front of him, with his back to Stiles, crouched a man. His whole body was poised as if ready to attack, but in a way that reminded Stiles of the wild animals he’d see on TV.

 

Moving slowly Stiles peered over the guy’s shoulder to see what he was protecting Stiles from. On the other side of the little clearing stood a dirty, crazy looking man. His hair was long and tangled and his clothes looked like they were about to fall apart. 

 

His eyes were glowing blue.

 

Stiles curled up into a tight ball hiding behind the man right before him and tried to not make a sound.

 

As if sensing his growing distress, the man roared at the crazy looking guy and shot up, charging at him. 

 

Fearing the worst Stiles covered his face with his arms and waited for the fight to end.

 

He heard thumping and the sound of clothes being ripped, a snarl and a pained yell. Growling and a sickening squelch that had him clamp his hands over his ears, eyes tightly shut. One of the men yowled and then feet thundered on the ground like someone was running.

 

But Stiles was too scared to see which one was the one to stay.

 

He startled when something wet prodded his cheek. 

 

He’d scramble further away, but there was no space for him to go other than possibly up the tree. So cautiously, he opened one eye and then the other, and looked at the person in front of him.

 

The man that stood to protect Stiles was now crouching right before him, eyes electric blue and inquisitive, lips pursed in a thin line. His hair was brown and a bit messy, overgrown like his beard. His clothes were whole, but dirty, like he’d lived in them for a while yet did his best to take care of them. 

 

He was barefoot and his hands were wet with blood.

 

The same blood that was now drying on Stiles’ cheek where the man touched him.

 

Fear spiking, he whimpered when the man leaned closer and… sniffed at him. Like he was his next meal.

 

“Please! Please mister, don’t eat me!” he begged, throwing his hands out to prevent the man from getting any closer, not that he could really count on that stopping him. “I-I’m scrawny and skinny and I definitely taste like Cheetos, and--”

 

He screamed when his hands were tugged forwards. He kicked at the man, but to no avail. The hits didn’t seem to have even the slightest effect. He tried pulling his arms free as well, but the man’s grip was firm. Eventually Stiles wore himself out with his futile flailing and just slumped back against the tree.

 

He didn’t stand a chance if the man really decided to eat him.

 

Once Stiles calmed down the guy lean in close once more, but this time it was to inspect Stiles’ scratched up palms. He growled briefly and then gave each of Stiles’ hands a thorough tongue bath. Which was pretty disgusting and tickled like hell.

 

Stiles gasped and wheezed, and called for the man to stop, but he only relented when he seemed satisfied with his job. 

 

Tugging at Stiles’ arms he brought them close and sniffed Stiles again, nose pressed to the side of Stiles’ neck. It… didn’t feel scary anymore.

 

It was more like he was checked up on after being protected from a rabid looking guy. 

 

“What’s your name?” he asked, but all he got was a deep rumble.

 

The man got up in one fluid motion and held onto Stiles’ hands obviously waiting for him to follow, but the moment Stiles put weight on his legs he was reminded of his skinned knee.

 

He bit at his lower lip to hold back from whining, but before he could even try to take a step he was being hefted up and pressed close. Cradled in the strange man’s arms. 

 

In that moment he didn’t even care about the blood he’d get on his clothes or that he didn’t know this man at all. He was tired and scared, but felt actually safe in those strong arms.

 

“My name’s Stiles,” he murmured against the man’s shoulder and allowed himself to fall asleep.

 

\---

 

Stiles woke up drenched in sweat and with his arms pinned to his chest. It took him a moment of panicked wiggling to realise that he was being held close by an arm wrapped around his middle, his back pressed firmly into what must have been someone’s chest.

 

He stared, wide awake, at the darkness before him, but couldn’t make out a thing. He remembered the man from earlier, remembered running from ho- what was his temporary home. Remembered that he didn’t really have a real home anymore.

 

He must have made some kind of sound. Maybe his breath hitched or he whimpered in pain. Either way the arm around his chest tightened, pulling him closer, and the man holding him snuffled at his neck, nosing the skin. 

 

Stiles curled up into a ball and pushed back into the man, focused on the vibration of the man’s chest as he rumbled, lulling Stiles back to sleep.

 

\--- 

 

The next time he opened his eyes he was alone in what seemed like a cave. A very lived in one, judging by the pile of cloth, leaves and moss resembling a nest that Stiles was currently sitting in. As well as the few odd trinkets stashed here and there in an odd, but purposeful way.

 

Stiles’ backpack sat up against the nearest wall. 

 

He was so relieved to see it there and to see it whole with all his little treasures still inside that he let a few tears fall and then did his best to compose himself.

 

Carefully, he edged out of the cave and stuck his head out to peer around.

 

There were bushes right in front of the entrance, covering it from view. They were so thick that Stiles had to go around them to see the small stretch of low greenery in front of him. 

 

The man from the day before was nowhere in sight, but Stiles was sure he’d be back sometime soon. This did look like his home. 

 

He’d wait for him here, maybe try to ask to be directed back to town. Or beg to stay.

 

He could live in the Preserve! He’d eat berries and drink from a river, and dad once showed him which mushrooms were edible. He’d learn to catch fish too! He just-- He just--

 

He wanted his dad and mom. 

 

He clamped his hands over his mouth and doubled up right there at the entrance to the cave. Lost in the Preserve and alone with a strange man roaming around. 

 

Why did he even try to leave?

 

stupid, so stupid!

 

He rocked on his knees back and forth doing his best not to wail. He shouldn’t make any more noise, but the tears wouldn’t stop. They kept welling up and falling, his nose so full he couldn’t breathe, but he couldn’t calm down at all.

 

He wasn’t sure how long he cried when he heard something crashing into the clearing with a loud growl. He didn’t even look up, couldn’t make himself move. What would be the point?

 

The growling ceased after a moment, the sudden silence broken by Stiles hiccuping as he cried. 

 

A large hand slid down his back, but it was the sniffling that told Stiles who it was at his side. The man from yesterday returned and was once again scooping Stiles up.

 

He carried Stiles back into the cave, to the nest Stiles woke up in moments ago, but he didn’t deposit him there. Instead, the man sat down in the middle of it and held Stiles close, rocking back and forth as he crooned into Stiles’ ear.

 

It was like a lullaby.

 

It did help Stiles calm down, until his breath came easier and his tears stopped. Before he could reach up and wipe at his face the man was already there: cupping one of his cheeks in a big hand and licking over Stiles’ cheeks and nose.

 

Cleaning him much like he cleaned blood the day before.

 

It tickled a bit, but it also felt nice. Being cared for and held like that.

 

Stiles fell into the man, arms wrapped around his neck as he hugged him close.

 

The man made a short, pleased sound. Snuffled at Stiles’ hair.

 

“What’s your name?” Stiles asked again. He didn’t remember getting one the day before, he wasn’t sure he’d get one now, but he wanted to know.

 

He was on the verge of falling asleep again when the man mumbled in his ear, voice gruff and harsh like he hasn’t used it in years.

 

“Peter.”

 

END 


End file.
